


Rule Ten ficlets

by the_ragnarok



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-16
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:09:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets I've written for skellerbvvt's Rule Ten while it was in progress, uploaded here in case of LJ dickery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In your silent room

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rule Ten](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/6520) by skellerbvvt. 



> Most if not all of these were beta'd by anatsuno. Who is awesome, as we all know. :D

ames runs his finger over the books in Arthur's library and wonders.

He wants to make a good impression. He knows that. What Eames chooses will matter, which is a bugger because Eames doesn't want to read _any_ of these things.

It's one of the glossy picture books that he ends up choosing. Well, he started with something cloth-bound and old, which looked literary and fine. Except Eames opened it, and the first page was something long about elephants, and the next thing he flipped to said _I will sit on the floor and look at you. In your peaceful room, I'll wait for you like your patient shoes,_ and that was just creepy.

So the book. With pictures in it. Whatever, it's in Arthur's library and it doesn't remind Eames of nightmares he had in elementary school. (The shoes had teeth. Don't ask.)

It's old. Or rather, the pictures are. The book itself is new, the spine creaking suspiciously when Eames opens it – has Arthur even _read_ this? – but the pictures are either black and white or oddly colored, sort of blurry in a way that indicates _artistic_ rather than _cameraman with shaky hands_.

These aren't photos, anyway. It's Art or something. There's mythological beasts and things, and people with feathers, and Eames kind of contemplates just putting it back where he found it but he has to read _something_. What the hell.

Eames goes to sit in the living room, because if he's going to read grown-up, boring, artistic stuff then he should at least do it where Arthur can appreciate his efforts. Not that Arthur does. Arthur is looking at his work and not at Eames, even though Eames is trying to better himself for Arthur, and does Arthur's work do that? No, it stays numberish and boring.

He could sigh a little, see if that gets Arthur's attention, but he reminds himself he's trying to be good so he sits down, quiet-like, and reads.

It's sad to say that he finds the book kind of incomprehensible. It's a _picture book_ , it's not meant to be difficult. It's just that the women have _fins_ and the men are all googly-eyed and also made of snow. At this point, text would actually be welcome, because it might explain _what the hell is going on._

Then Eames turns a page, and the page stays turned. It stays because Eames is holding it, because he needs to be looking at this. No, wait, he needs to _stop_ looking at this, preferably right now, because any minute Arthur will turn to look at Eames and Eames is rapidly turning colors that don't really become him.

He swallows. It's just a picture, right? He can close the book shut now and go get something else, anything else, even the creepy poetry thing. It's not even a dirty picture, not something Eames would hesitate to hide under his bed in case anyone decided to pry into his business.

It would be better if it were filthy, if there were naked people in there. There aren't and it's not. It's just weird. There's a woman, and she's wearing a hat that's frankly bigger than her torso, and another woman who's not wearing much of _anything_ but she's the slender type and _Eames_ has more to put in a cleavage than that.

And that woman is kneeling, and she's holding the first woman's foot in her hand, and pressing her lips to the arch of it like some strange perversion of a continental kiss to the hand. The woman with the hat is wearing one boot, with the other next to her, like the kneeling woman just took that off for her.

Eames blinks and remembers, a month ago – it was raining, it rained bad and Arthur went out to the corner store to get milk (was it milk? Eames seems to remember that. Something along those lines) and came back dripping wet. He'd taken his shoes off, then (well, not just then, he'd put the milk or whatever-it-was in the fridge first because this is Arthur and he is thorough) and gotten into a dry pair of socks and that was that.But Eames is thinking, now, that maybe that shouldn't have happened like that. Maybe Arthur should have sat down and let Eames take his shoes off for him. Then Eames wouldn't kneel just for no reason, but because it was convenient to do that so he could take Arthur's shoes off.

It wouldn't be a problem, anyway. Arthur has a thick comfortable carpet in his living room. Eames' knees wouldn't hurt at all.

And then he could have gotten Arthur's feet nice and warm. They were probably icy, coming in from the rain like that, but Eames' hands are always a bit too warm around Arthur. He could put that to good use, that would be nice.

If Eames bent down then, just pressed a kiss at the top of Arthur's instep, well, why not? Since this is all happening in a world where Arthur lets Eames take his shoes off without saying things like _what are you doing?_ or _Eames, you're getting water on the carpet._

No reason to think Arthur _wouldn't_ let Eames do that, is all. And maybe he could lift Arthur's foot, drag his tongue down Arthur's sole, careful not to tickle. He's got nice feet, does Arthur, all those delicate bones fitted together, soft pale skin.

Eames closes the book very slowly. Arthur still hasn't looked at him, not once since he came into the living room. If Eames called him, Arthur would raise his head and say _what?_ , not angry or impatient, just wanting to know. But as long as Eames is quiet, Arthur leaves him alone, just to do whatever.

So Eames _doesn't_ call Arthur's name, doesn't call any attention to himself at all, just slots the book back into Arthur's shelves and go to his room – the guest room – no, _his_ room, for today, for a minute, for now. Just for now.

He lies on the bed and closes his eyes and lets himself see it, Arthur padding around the house, Arthur putting his feet up on the coffee table, and Eames is never allowed to touch Arthur at all but it's only feet, isn't it? Nothing adult or dangerous about them. Feet. They're what you walk with.

Maybe he'd put them in Eames' lap, so Eames can rub them until Arthur's relaxed and smiling at him. Or, no, go back to before, to Arthur in the chair and his poor legs needing to be warmed up. Because maybe Eames could take Arthur's trousers off too, while he's at it, drape himself over Arthur's lap and warm him up all over.

Then, if he's bad – if he said something he shouldn't, out of turn, something – maybe Arthur would take a hand to him; but if he's good, maybe Arthur would take a _hand_ to him, maybe, and Eames would slide right down and let Arthur touch him, smacks or petting, Eames doesn't even care.

And then he could just press his lips to the top of Arthur's foot, kiss the hinge of it, near the ankle. If he's very, very good, maybe Arthur's other foot will slide up Eames' thigh, reach him, press down where he's pressing the heel of his hand right now and, _oh_.

He opens his eyes, panting in the half-darkness of his – the guest room in late afternoon. Goes to wash himself, and if Arthur wonders what drives Eames to take a shower all of a sudden he doesn't ask.

Eames sort of wishes he did, but that's just the way things are now.


	2. If you seek to master others

Masturbation is a tricky business these days. Arthur can't just jerk off in the shower, like he always does, because there's always a sneaky voice in the back of his head going _Guess what Eames did in here just yesterday afternoon_ , and he can't do this thinking about Eames. That's opening the door to so many wrong things.

Arthur draws the line, though, at making himself fall asleep lying on his back. It was something he did, back in his teenage days, somewhat out of twisted unhappiness, mostly for control. He remembers himself, fifteen, staring at the ceiling and thinking _if you seek to master others, you must master first yourself,_ like it was a mantra or meaningful or anything beyond a quote from a stupid fantasy book.

Kept him from having to do too many loads of laundry, though, so there was that.

But the point is, Arthur doesn't do that anymore. He's not ashamed of what he wants, doesn't resent it for all that it's making his life a _bitch_ right now. That's who he is, and choking it down isn't going to help.

So Arthur sorts through it neatly, in daytime when there are people and cars in the street outside, and gets himself off thinking about porn, about subs he fucked. Not Eames, with his beautiful lush mouth –

 _Stop it,_ he thinks, and he does. Control was never Arthur's problem, not even when he was fifteen and certainly not now.

Because he is aware of himself, he knows that he's not satisfied with jacking off, not to memories or even the frenzied scenarios he makes up, trying to get himself off or at least edge himself closer if he can't. Arthur knows this. There's just not a lot he can do about it.

Orgasms help him sleep. Pretty universal, but no less fortunate for that.

His bed is cold to get into, crisp chilly sheets against his skin. It's warmer soon enough, though, maybe because there's someone squirming to get closer to him.

Arthur puts an arm out, feeling in the darkness. He knows who this is, though, so he pulls it back in after a moment, recognizing it as an excuse to touch when he shouldn't. But there is Eames against him, fitting himself tight into Arthur's side. Eames can't do this. Neither can Arthur. This isn't allowed

He can't, he shouldn't. But he _wants_ , and all of a sudden he can't remember why he can't _have_.

Sneaking into his bed like that, without permission. That's not good behavior. Eames should be taught a measure of respect. Arthur twists his arm behind his back.

"Hey – " Eames' voice is sharp, but he stays put. Stays where he's put, like a good boy should.

"It shouldn't hurt," Arthur says, matter of fact, gripping just a little tighter. "Not unless you try to escape."

Eames is eying him, like he's considering it, as if the last weeks where he all but begged Arthur for this suddenly vanished and _now_ he wants out. Then Eames exhales and goes limp in Arthur's arms.

Arthur knows he's smiling, knows it's the smile with teeth in. "Be good," he tells Eames, setting his teeth on the back of Eames' neck. Eames gasps, and Arthur is torn between ordering him to keep silent and not. On one hand, he wants to _hear_ Eames, see if he can make Eames shout or sob, but on the other – wouldn't it be gorgeous to force Eames to reign himself in?

There's something about that kind of control that Arthur loves, and a measure of pride in teaching it to someone else. Something beyond sex or playing, something cool and elegant that Arthur appreciates wholly on a cerebral level.

And then Eames twists in his hold – not enough to hurt himself, just drawing Arthur's attention back – and Arthur has better things to think about now. "Let me hear you," he tells Eames, tightening his hold for punctuation.

  
Eames lets out a _hnng_ and _moves_ , the muscles he's fast developing rippling beneath Arthur's hands. It's not a struggle. If Arthur would call it anything, he might well call it preening.

Eames wants Arthur's full attention. This is exactly what he'll get. But Arthur tells him, "I won't fuck you," to hear him whimper in disappointment more than anything else. "Not tonight," he amends, smiling where Eames can't see him. "That'll wait until you're a good boy who doesn't come into beds where he's not invited."

Eames' huff of breath sounds particularly offended. Arthur chooses to ignore it for now.

"If you want," Arthur tells him, drawn out, vicious in the way his voice can be when he makes it so, "I can jerk you off and send you back to bed." It's gratifying, the way Eames melts at that. Even more so when Eames tenses right back up at the thought of being sent away. "Or. You can take what you deserve for being disobedient, and then you can stay."

Eames makes a soft noise. Arthur patiently waits, unmoving, until Eames says, "That. Yes."

"That, _what_ , Eames." He doesn't need to move Eames' arm. Eames knows Arthur has him.

"Punish me," Eames says, and the breathlessness in his voice does all sorts of interesting things to Arthur's insides.

It's late and Arthur can't think of anything creative, so he settles for digging his fingers into the muscles in Eames' shoulders, right where they meet his neck, _hard_.

Serves Eames right for forgetting to stretch unless Arthur tells him. Serves him right for coming into Arthur's bed uninvited. Serves him right for being what Arthur wants while Arthur can't have it. Serves him right for taking it so beautifully, for leaning into Arthur's hands even though they're hurting him, for twisting his head to look at Arthur with an expression that's got nothing in it but _yes_.

"Let me suck you off," Eames says, voice breaking. "Or, with my hand, I don't care. Or fuck me. Anything."

And that, right there, would be the best punishment of all. Not letting Eames touch him, staying in control and on top, unmoved, while Eames gasps himself to pieces under him.

Eames licks his lips. Arthur's half-moved to smack him for being a manipulative little fuck. Instead he moves Eames to lie on his back, kneeling over him. He cradles Eames' head in his hands, not pulling him in, keeping still.

Eames' eyes have gone glassy, unfocused. He licks his lips again but it's a different gesture now, almost involuntary. He blinks, and his eyes flicker up to meet Arthur's. He says, "Please." And, at Arthur's steady gaze, Eames adds, "I'll be good."

He will. Arthur will make sure of it. He pulls Eames in, then, because Arthur may be impervious to his own wants but there's only so much of Eames' wants that he can stand before letting him.

Eames takes him in, eyelids fluttering shut as he closes his lips around Arthur's cock, sucking. He's good at this, better than Arthur would have thought (there's something about that, niggling in the corner of Arthur's brain – something here is _unlikely_ ), and then it's good enough that Arthur can't actually _think_.

 _Wet-dream good,_ Arthur thinks, and then he wakes up, spilling over his sheets like he really is fifteen again.

Perhaps the worst of it, as Arthur gathers his soiled bed linens to launder and replace, is how Arthur resents the dream for ending – not before he came, but before Eames did. Before Arthur had a chance to clean him up and calm him down, give him comfort with everything he has, words and body and all the kisses ever.

If Arthur's going to dream about what he can't have, he should be at least allowed to dream about what he wants most.


	3. Ask tomorrow

It's late when Eames gets back from Ariadne's birthday party. That means that all the lights are out at Arthur's house. Eames tries not to feel put out as well. After all, he knew Arthur will likely be asleep when he came back. Arthur has work tomorrow.

Eames goes to his room first, to take his clothes off. Sammy's on his bed, snoring in soft little doggy-huffs, and Eames pets her before he leaves the room.

Then he lingers at the door to Arthur's bedroom. Not because he's uncertain if he's allowed inside (Arthur gave him specific permission, Eames asked before he left for the party). Definitely not because he's uncertain he _wants_ to come inside, because that's just plain ridiculous.

But he might wake Arthur up. Arthur has work tomorrow, and Arthur has a hard time falling back asleep once he's woken up. If Eames makes too much noise, that could mean Arthur would be tired and cranky tomorrow. Eames doesn't want that.

So he's extra-careful opening the door. It doesn't creak because Arthur oils the hinges regularly, and sometimes he makes Eames do it because he likes watching Eames get messy.

Arthur's face is turned away from the door. He's got the covers pulled up around him, in a way that Eames never knew anyone could manage, so that the corners are still tucked into the bed frame. Eames can't slide under the blanket without either pulling them out or waking Arthur up.

So he does the next best thing, crawling carefully to lie curled up at the foot of the bed. He's done that a bunch of time, he can sleep fine like that. It's a little colder than Eames likes best, but it's not bad. He's got Arthur's feet keeping him company, and he can keep _them_ company, so it's all nice and friendly-like.

From under the blanket, one of said feet is poking at Eames' chest. "Hey," Arthur says. Apparently he's not actually asleep. "Get in here."

Eames tries to keep from smiling his biggest, goofiest smile, but he can't really help himself. So he slides under, pulling the blanket out and away, and there's some undignified wriggling until the blanket's covering both of them.

Arthur says, "Hey," again, quiet. There are streetlights shining through the window, so Eames can see his face now. Serious, but not bad-serious. Just... thinking, maybe. Then he takes Eames' hands between his and frowns. "You're cold."

"A little." He won't be for long, though. Arthur puts out heat like a furnace. Under the blankets it's hot enough that it feels like summer, in spite of the cold air on his face. Then Arthur puts Eames' hands on his chest, he makes Eames _touch_ him, and Eames can't feel the cold at all when he's doing that.

Arthur brushes a hand over Eames' newly-formed erection. "Looking to do something about that?" It's half a challenge, half a genuine question.

"Isn't it late for you?" Eames knows it is. Doesn't stop him from hoping.

Arthur laughs a little, just a quiet thing, barely more than an exhalation. "You could hold on to that," Arthur says. "When are you coming home tomorrow?"

And this – just this, that Arthur can say _home_ and neither of them will start twitching or justifying or anything. Just. Home. Eames can call Arthur's house that. That's good.

Also, Arthur asked a question. Eames suppresses his first answer, which is _Whenever you want_ , because it sounds pathetic and also he promised Ariadne they'll go for ice cream. It's her birthday. Birthdays are important. So Eames says, "Dunno. Seven?"

"All right." Arthur bends his head forward, so their faces are nearly touching. "I'll be here. And then we'll see."

Eames nods. If he keeps touching Arthur, he'll start hurting soon. That's okay, though. He wants that. They both do. "Goodnight kiss?" he says, ever hopeful.

Arthur kisses him on the cheek. "Ask me again tomorrow."

And the thing is, Eames doesn't know if he'll get off tomorrow. He isn't even hoping for it, exactly, because if he doesn't then he'll get to carry that frustration around for however long Arthur wants him to, a small concentrated ache that's all for Arthur. And that's. Yeah. Eames will do that.


	4. My joy and my solace

It's a good thing Arthur isn't the type to slam doors. If he were, there's a good likeliness his house wouldn't have survived this week. As it is, he stands outside his own front door for a full minute, trying to steady his breathing.

Then he comes in and all the air goes out of him, for no other reason than – Eames. Eames is sitting at the dining table, head bowed over something, scratching with a pencil. Arthur finds himself laughing weakly, not because anything is funny, just because that's what his lungs decide to do at the moment.

He kisses the back of Eames' neck, long and lingering, and wraps his arms around Eames' shoulders. Eames leans into it, like he always does, like he has a special gravitational force that applies to Arthur only.

Arthur lets his forehead rest on the back of Eames' head for a moment, then goes to make tea. Eames returns to what he was doing – homework or artwork or something else, if Eames wants Arthur's involvement he'll ask. Arthur can trust Eames to do that now.

He takes his time making tea, motions careful and precise, falling into the comfortable routine of it. Rooibos tea, with cinnamon and vanilla, no sugar. Arthur sits across the corner from Eames, drinks and half-closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the wall.

"Bad day?" Eames asks. He's looking at Arthur from the corner of his eye, head still bowed.

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut for a moment.

"Eames. Could you do something for me?"

When Arthur opens his eyes, Eames is looking at him, expectant, as if what Arthur just asked was a completely rhetorical question. It would take something on the magnitude of a large natural disaster for that _not_ to send a shiver through Arthur, but he puts that aside for now. Until he calms down completely, he can't touch Eames.

Well, touch him, of course. But not _touch_ him. Arthur can't ever lay an angry hand on him – not won't but _can't_ , stopped at a visceral level that comes before making an actual decision.

So Arthur keeps the distance between them and pulls a handful of photos from his briefcase. "You see the people in the center?" Eames nods. "Cut the edges around them. I want something that looks like a passport photo."

Eames nods again. He has a steel ruler beside him on the table, and he uses it to draw sharp neat lines on the glossy paper. He doesn't bother with scissors, just jots a firm line down then uses the ruler to tear off the edges. He slides the finished products over to Arthur.

Arthur doesn't mean to sigh. It comes out more like a hiss in any case. "Now, could you give me _one_ plausible reason," he says, "that a grown man with a college education can't do what you just did?"

Eames' mouth twitches into a smile. "Your company is hiring morons?"

"Stop being right," Arthur says, sliding down in the chair, suddenly exhausted. "They just kept asking questions," he says. "Why do I need it. Why can't we do it in Photoshop. Did I want something _artistic_."

Eames laughs at that, and Arthur smiles at him with all the warmth he doesn't have to hold back anymore.

See, Eames isn't the type to follow orders unquestioningly. If clarifications are needed, he asks; if Eames thinks something is fucking stupid, he says so. Yet with all his stupid teenage antagonism, Eames can do what needs to be done better than half of Arthur's direct underlings. And all right, Arthur may be biased, but there's a reason he got biased in the first place.

Then Eames slides to kneel on the carpet, rubbing his cheek against Arthur's knee. "Blowjob?"

Arthur lets his hand sink into Eames' hair, rubbing soft circles on his skull. "You shouldn't offer when I'm wound up like this." Not harsh. Eames is still learning. He has a right to ask.

Eames doesn't answer. Just stays where he is and lets Arthur run his hands all over his head and his scalp, down his neck to his shoulders, petting Eames and feeling the anger drain away from him like an earthed electric charge.

There's another charge building, though. A slow grin spreads over Arthur's face, then fades away into the blank calmness that settles over him like a mantle.

"Eames." His pull on Eames' hair is gentle, but no less demanding for it. "Stand up."

Eames looks up at him and grins. "And if I don't want to?"

"You want to." The next pull is hard enough to hurt, and Eames obliges him, getting to his feet. He's still slouching, though, and that expression is just about insufferable.

"Whatcha gonna do?" Eames tilts his head. "Make me?"

Arthur breathes, " _Yes_ ," and they are _on_.

Eames puts up a good fight when Arthur pins him to the wall. Still a little untrained, still rough around the edges, but he'll be better. Arthur's teaching him to be. Soon he'll be effectively stronger than Arthur, but that won't matter. It's never really Arthur's arms keeping Eames in place, after all.

He says, "Stay still," and Eames shivers and melts up into his hands, like water suddenly running uphill. Arthur holds Eames' wrists in one hand, pinning them to the wall, while the other runs down Eames' flank, appreciative. He's bulking up. He's going to be pretty fucking impressive soon.

Right now, though, Eames is beautiful. Arthur suspects Eames always will be, to him, and it's got less to do with the muscles and the lips. It's not even the eyes. It's what's behind them. Eames is fucking amazing, and Arthur tells him so as he hunts for the rope and winds it around Eames' wrists. Arthur pulls the knot tight, methodical, looking at Eames to check for discomfort.

If there’s any, Eames isn't feeling it. Eames is smiling, the soft curve of his mouth pulling wider, eyelids drooping like he's sleepy. "Hey," Arthur says. "You with me?"

Eames turns his head, slowly, and blinks at Arthur as if to say _Where else would I be?_ He licks his lips and says, "Yeah," in that slow, scratchy voice that makes Arthur want to do _everything to him_.

For now, Arthur starts with tying the rope to the pull up bar they hung in the doorway to his room. That thing takes Eames' weight on a daily basis, no reason for it to fail now. Arthur leaves just enough give for Eames to stand on his toes.

He kisses Eames briefly, a promise and a threat combined, and goes to find that ruler.

By the time Arthur comes back Eames is already halfway gone, breathing in short, fast gulps of air, pants so obviously tented at the crotch that it has to hurt.

Arthur runs a hand down Eames' thigh. "Should I take your pants off?" He slaps that thigh with the ruler, lightly, just to give Eames a clue.

Eames blinks. There's a faint sheen of sweat on his face. "Pants," he croaks, then clears his voice. "If you take them off, I'll." He swallows.

Arthur rubs two fingers across Eames' jaw, and waits for the rest of the sentence.

"I'll come," Eames says. "If you take anything off me."

Arthur nods, taking that in. That would be gorgeous, making Eames come apart here and now, but he doesn't want that. Not yet. He whaps Eames again with the ruler. "How many?"

The curve of Eames' smile is sweet, like a private victory for both of them. "Ten," he says. "No, fifteen."

"Ten it is," Arthur says, dryly, and swings.

He's not trying to spare Eames. Eames can take it, loves that he can take it, will ask for more than he wants just so he can bear it for Arthur.

Arthur lands the strikes in an even pattern, across Eames' ass and the backs of his thighs. He doesn't make Eames count. Eames gets the numbers mixed up when he can call up the words at all, and that's just unpleasant for everyone involved. Instead, Arthur counts, because whenever he speaks Eames twitches, harder than he does when he's struck.

Soon it's done. Eames sags, letting the rope take his weight. He looks like he ran ten miles. Then he raises his eyes at Arthur, and there's so much joy there that Arthur doesn't know what to do with it, what to do with himself except kiss Eames. He can't put everything into it, all the things he wants to give Eames, to make that glow burn up inside him until Eames shines like Arthur knows he can.

He can try, though, so he does, kissing and kissing Eames until he goes completely pliant, his breathing even and calm. Eames is like putty in his hands when Arthur takes him down. Heat-seeking putty, pushing into Arthur's touch, flowing over him until they both end up on the floor with Arthur sitting up against the wall and Eames' head in his lap.

They stay like this until Eames blinks aware and twists to look up at Arthur. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself," Arthur says. "How about dinner?"

Eames nuzzles into Arthur's stomach. "How about a shag?"

Arthur pretends to think. "Tell you what. Help me make dinner now, and then you can come to bed with me."

"Can I, now," Eames says, but there's no mistaking the brilliance of that expression.

Arthur kisses him, just for a minute, then gets up and makes Eames wash the bell peppers and peel the carrots while he fries the ground beef for the bolognaise sauce.


End file.
